Dark is the church, save where the altar stands, Strange silence here: without, the sounding street ΙΟ 15 LIONEL JOHNSON1 1867-1902 Lionel Johnson, journalist, critic, and poet, was born in Kent in 1867. He went first to school at Winchester and eventually entered New College, Oxford. Soon after coming of age he became a convert to the Catholic faith. The remainder of his short life was spent in London as a journalist. He had, however, begun to write verse at an early age, publishing his first work in 1883. His first recognition came in 1894 with the appearance of his Art of Thomas Hardy. Two slender volumes of verse followed, Poems in 1895, and Ireland, with Other Poems in 1897. He died in 1902. There is about his poetry an unworldliness, a mystical charm, and a musical quality that have won for him a permanent place among the minor poets. OUR LADY OF THE MAY O FLOWER of flowers, our Lady of the May! Thou gavest us the World's one Light of Light: Under the stars, amid the snows, He lay; While Angels, through the Galilean night Sang glory and sang peace: Nor doth their singing cease, 5 'Selections from the work of Lionel Johnson are reprinted by permission of, and arrangement with, Elkin Mathews, Ltd., owners of the copy For thou their Queen and He their King sit crowned They chaunt to thee the Lily, Him the Rose With white Saints kneeling round. JO Gone is cold night: thine now are spring and day: O Flower of flowers, our Lady of the May! O Flower of flowers, our Lady of the May! And now, not snows, but blossoms, light thy way; Are angels of the spring, Spirits of gracious rain and light and dew. Hail, Holy Queen! their fragrant breathings say: O Flower of flowers, our Lady of the May! Blessing, when we thy little children pray: Let thy soul's grace steal gently over ours. Send on us dew and rain, Nor wither in the dry and parching dust. Star of our hope and trust! 15 20 25 30 Sweet Star, sweet Flower, there bid thy beauty stay: 35 O Flower of flowers, our Lady of the May! Sown in our dark heart! We 40 Would make our hearts gardens for thy dear care; And full of heavenly air: While music ever in thy praise should play, O Flower of flowers, our Lady of the May! 45 50 Lost in this pleasant land, thy chosen Dower! Let faith arise and sing, And England from her long, cold winter wake. 55 Thine eyes of mercy: be their spring indeed: So shall thine Angels make A starrier music, than our hearts can say, O Flower of flowers, our Lady of the May! 60 TO MORFYDD DEAD I WOULD, to the glory of thine eyes might change, Impassionate strange surprise, Lightning, that in darkness flies! Oh, fairer yet! would, an unbending sheaf Of steel my grief might end, And to thine my freed soul send! Would, I might meet swift death from flight of spears! Morfydd, O my lost delight! I would, that on the fiercest field of blood, Morfydd! I stood, no shield Sheltering my breast unsteeled! 5 10 I would, that swords of death rang round my way, Home within the heart, thine crowned! I would, that my freed soul within the wind Thine, and joy of death begin! I would, that with eternal wings we went, Ended, save the song love sings! Sweet spears and swords, who send his due to death! My sad heart saith not you Nay: ah, swift then, pierce it through! II Morfydd at midnight Met the Nameless Ones: Now she wanders on the winds. White and lone. I would give the light Of eternal suns, 15 20 25 30 Morfydd at midnight Met the Nameless Ones: Take from me the light, God! of all Thy suns: Give me her, who on the winds THE DARKNESS MASTER of spirits! hear me: King of souls! 45 10 15 20 Else have I nothing in the world, but death: Thine hounding winds rush by me day and night, Thy seas roar in mine ears: I have no rest, No peace, but am afflicted constantly, 25 Driven from wilderness to wilderness. And yet Thou hast a perfect house of light, Above the four great winds, an house of peace: |